


love right, or not at all

by theholychesse



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (just want to keep all y’all... Safe..), Canon Compliant, Clear And Undisputable Lesbianism, F/F, Intrusive Thoughts, Mutual Pining, Self Harm, Unreliable Narrator, Yaz POV, bless graham, bless ryan, i mean. she’s mostly reliable but there are moments where truth blurs with untruth, or is it one sided ;), probably will be slow burn, self hatred, there's................................. so much tension im dying scoob, this shit has so much romantic tension i’m crying, will my interpretation of her be defunct in two episodes? absolutely. do i care? absolutely not, yaz is a girl with issues who tries her best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-09 04:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16442666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theholychesse/pseuds/theholychesse
Summary: yasmin always loved those who'd she'll never getit's a shame she hasn't yet learned her lesson yet





	1. Arachnids in the UK

**Author's Note:**

> it's gay lmao

"I want more of you." She'd been too wrapped up in the moment, the whole—The whole  _moment_ of it all, to think more than the very now and here, and that's why she said something so utterly and completely daft. At least, that's her excuse. After all, the thought that she'd willingly, and without a hint of regret in her, said something so damn—Oh, oh, so damn  _bent_ was daft. Barmy. Awful. Humiliating. Sickening.   
  
Yaz remembers a girl with chestnut hair and blue eyes. Yaz remembers a girl with a funny lopsided kind of grin, and a sort of inner beauty that stunned her. Yaz remembers Year 10 prom, and remembers carefully picking flowers in the eve, but staining her hands green and white and tacky regardless. Yaz remembers thrusting those flowers over, with a nervous sort of grin on her face, her heart fluttering in her chest.   
  
Yaz remembers feeling sick down to her belly, down to her toes, when the girl turned with such confusion high on her features, making her cute little freckles wrinkle in the lines of her face, and then, and then—Seeing a blossoming kind of pity, the beginnings of disgust, and bright marvel, as if at an odd, queer little thing.   
  
Yaz supposes she has a type. She does tend to go with the odd little girls who are way out of her league.   
  
When Yaz is alone, in some bathroom tucked in the corner of the TARDIS, of the Doctor's TARDIS—She forces herself to breath harsh through the gaps in her fingers, pressing the pads of them to her eyes, to make her remember that it's always better to fall in love with men, instead.   
  
Her next breath chokes her, and she sees blonde hair and hazel eyes in the black of her closed lids, and she feels like she could drown in the Doctor's eager grin, after she'd said that horribly, horribly, horribly bent phrase.   
  
She wonders when she'd learn to love right. 

 

...

 

Yaz can't help herself, sometimes. Oh, this was always her thing—She fell hard and fast, for each person she'd fallen for at all. In kindergarten, it was Taylor McCaugh. In primary, it was Ryan Sinclair, still as goofy and brave yet cowardly as he was back then. In secondary, it had been several more, often at the same time: Tahlia Muhammed, Omagwa Stevens, Peppermint Kingsley, Riley Smith. Each time, she'd imagine what it would be like to see their face not only from glimpses, now and then, but every day. She imagined the press of their hands against hers, imagined the warmth of their bodies, and then, once she'd became interested in  _such_ things, the press, the weight, of their bodies on her, or under her. She doodled their faces, their names, with hers in little hearts, like a damn cliche. She wrote about them on her blog, which she still hasn't deleted, despite the damn thing being almost six years old, now.   
  
She loved them, with everything she had. And yet, none loved her back at all. At prom, she went alone. Her mum and dad weren't the stereotypes in the media, in the memes, and looked up with a brightness in their eyes whenever she spoke of another person, and the times she'd seen her mum and dad and Sonya glance at whatever few friends she had, with interest, could have driven her—Could have driven her nuts already, really. But that's her family, in a nutshell. Just shy of driving her barmy permanently.   
  
And so, really, it shouldn't matter, when her mum had asked, then, "Are you two seeing each other?" in that careful little half-wistful way of hers, she shouldn't have gotten that particular clench to her gut, that particular clamminess to her palms, as this was normal, almost a family joke, really—  
  
And the way that something awful and mushy and detestable twisted around the meat of her heart when the Doctor went, in that cheery oblivious tone of hers, "Are we?" shouldn't have made her feel like that, like, like, like—Like someone normal and loveable, either.   
  
And, that night, after all that—She shouldn't have laid awake, in the too-soft, just-odd smelling sheets made, apparently, from thin air by the TARDIS—Thinking of the lopsided point of the Doctor's grin, of the near-manic, always-beautiful gleam of her eyes, the odd sun-like heat of her body, or the naked vulnerability displayed by her just before Yaz had blurted, "Tea?"   
  
Yaz thinks of a calloused, soft, old and young and alien hand, and wonders how it would feel like pressed against the meat of her cheek.   
  
And Yaz hates, and hates, and hates, for loving wrong yet again. 


	2. Arachnids in the Conundrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternatively titled: episode 4.5
> 
> more alternatively titled: the one in which yaz probs has a fucking hand fetish

At thirteen, Yasmin was scared, naive, and lonely. That is not an unusual experience for thirteen-year-olds, the universe over. Yasmin was 13, and a bit chubby. The other girls and boys could gorge all they want, and stay slim and normal, but everything Yasmin ate went to her sides, and so—So it was somewhat natural that she would be a girl with a particular pudge to her belly, which was mostly hidden by the uniform, or a girl who had thighs the sizes of most girls' heads. She wasn't—She wasn't  _fat_ , not, not, not there's anything  _wrong_ about that, but don't get her wrong. This isn't the story of a lonely fat girl turned lonely slim girl learning to love herself for who and what she is. No, it's—

It's something else.   
  
Yasmin, at 13, was a plush, soft girl, with big pinchable cheeks which Daadi took ready advantage of, whenever the family would visit them, out in the South West.  Yasmin, at 13, as 13-year-old girls were wont to do, cried.   
  
One time, as she cried, night had fallen. Her desk was alit in the dim glow of her lamp, her math work splayed across, almost untouched, as if mocking her. She cried, her little fingers wiping, futilely, against the steady stream of sticky-salty tears at her face. Yasmin had been blessed with a relatively pretty kind of crying—She didn't go all snotty, and her lip didn't twist inside out when she bawled, either. Her nose wrinkled, her eyes reddened, and she wept, simple as that. And as she cried, she didn't hear the soft opening of her door, light streaming gold and white in from the hallway.   
  
She only noticed that something had changed, in her own little self-imposed bubble of misery, when a warm hand pressed against her shoulder—She'd jumped, for a moment—But without peering up, without thinking about the  _who_ or the  _what_ —She collapsed into their warms, a wet pile of preteen angst moaning about how she's  _so dim, can't get something so simple, Mrs. Maple is going to kill me, oh, I'm so useless, oh, I'm so stupid—_  
  
And in her dream, the hands that wiped those sticky and salty tears away, that pressed cool, calming thumbs to the corners of her eyes, and made her look at them, straight in the eyes—Those hands were pale, and thin.   
  
In reality, they were thick and brown and calloused: The hands of a man who worked well, but not overly hard.   
  
In her dream, girl-Yasmin was suddenly Yaz-the-elder, a skinny girl with a bit of a risk to get a double chin if she went for a second slice, and Yaz wept because—Because she did. That's it, really. The difference between the weeping of teenage girls and the weeping of adult women was that one knew what she wept for, and the other didn't. As an adult, you just sometimes cried, because something inside of you commanded you to break and collapse into a puddle of misery and loathing until whatever made you hurt was numb enough that you just kept on going regardless.   
  
Yaz isn't a miserable person. She's got a good job, a good family. Perhaps she's a bit lonely—But that's an entire Gen Z issue, ain't it? And yet, despite this, despite this, when she dreamed this dream, where she wept, where she wept enough to make her hands turn into prunes and make her remember no taste on her tongue but that of salt, she dreamt of a women with intense, inspiring eyes that glinted gold in the light of the sun, who held her by the cheeks, and told her, "Nothing is ever worth your tears."  
  
And Yaz woke, tangled in her sheets, and swore she could still feel the weight of hands on her face.   
  
  
...   
  
  
Yaz is used to an early awakening, as traffic infringements started as soon as traffic did, nice and early to get to work. So's Ryan, from working at the warehouse from the wee hours of the day. And Graham? Well, he's just old. Old people just get up early, and that's the way of things, innit?   
  
And so the thought that when Yaz awoke, and padded to the nearest kitchen, to the kitchen that had been most clean of cobwebs and dirt and mugs with images and stains from people who made the Doctor go wet-eyed for a moment, and had been alone—Why, that had been unusual. Even in her own house, the kitchen was always a hub of steam from the kettle, heat from the toaster, and the quiet click of a spoon against bowl.   
  
Here, she was alone. And even as she flipped the kettle on, all she could feel in the windowless quiet of the kitchen was—Nothing. Nothing, so thick as to film over her skin, covering and luke-warm like wax.  
  
She rubbed, aimlessly, at spots of rising gooseflesh, and blearily blinked at the soft fabric of her PJs.   
  
So when the quiet storm of the Doctor twisted into the room, she could feel it immidiatly—Despite the lack of windows, despite the artificial glow of the lights, despite the Doctor's very-human-looking flesh, she came in—She came in like the sun. Bright and warm and making everything turn towards her, hoping to catch a piece of her power and presence.   
  
Yaz blinked, in the uncertain way of those newly awoken, as the Doctor, already clad in a purple shirt with those damn lines, in the same pants, the same coat, not a hair or a shiny star out of place, came in, somehow, despite the maybe-hour of this place—Already buzzing, no,  _glowing_ with energy, as she bounced from the shiny sink and murmured, "Oh, clean! Oh, dunno who did that, but I ought to thank them. Don't want to even  _think_ what might have been at the bottom there—" to the singing kettle and then went, "Kettle! Fetch! Oh, does anyone say fetch? I heard they did, but I'm not sure, didn't exactly come from a trusted source—" and then to Yasmin, and before anything else, glancing at the tea label in her chipped blue mug, and going, " _Lipton,_ Yaz? For shame. Everyone knows they're run by water-sucking Martians—" Before finally landing onto Yaz, as if having finished a difficult voyage of the ship which was her body, her spirit, which was her boundless enthusiasm for, for, for, for— _Everything._  
  
"Yaz!" The greeting was high and excited, spoken as if she hadn't seen her in  _years_ —And when she went in for a tight, and quick hug, Yasmin was more than faintly reminded of a great, big, yellow dog jumping up and lapping at her cheek.   
  
"Doctor." She said, a moment later, but which felt like a minute. Her voice was still deep from tiredness, but despite it, despite the sand at the corner of her eyes, despite the regret still lingering, thick and cloying, in her mouth, from yesterday—She smiled, smiled a little smile which pulled at her lips and showed the bright white of her teeth.   
  
"That's me!" The Doctor chirped, honest to god _chirped_ , and she, now—With her hazel eyes so bright, so careless, her smile, lopsided and imperfect with its lines and slightly too-horizontal tilt, she, she, she looked—  
  
Yaz quickly hurried to the kettle before she could finish her thought, pouring the water into her mug with hands that shook just the littlest bit. And when a drop of boiling water dropped onto her hand, just a drop,  _really—_ She slammed both the mug and the kettle onto the maybe-marble countertop, hissing, placing her mouth at the spot where skin rapidly began to redden.   
  
Of course, the Doctor flew down within the moment, worry thick in her voice, despite the boundless joy present not a moment ago—"Are you alright, Yaz?"—And the Doctor, bright and beautiful and with her brows pinched towards the center of her face, placed a warm hand on Yaz's burnt one, and Yaz suddenly became too-aware of the space between them, or, rather, its  _lack—_  
  
The Doctor was so close, that she could feel the warmth and the toothpaste-mint of her breath.   
  
"Yeah." Yaz said, voice strangled. The Doctor must have mistaken her tone for something else, as her brows furrowed only more, and she all but  _wrapped_ her hand around Yaz's, fingers perhaps a millimetre from touching Yaz's lips, and, and, and Yaz feels—  
  
"Are we, uh, interrupting anything?" Ryan asks, clad in a T and sweats, followed closely by Graham, who's wearing the most stereotypical geezer pair of plaid PJs Yaz has ever _seen._  
  
"No, no you're not! I'm fine!" It's a plea. It's a beg. It's high, too high, and she looks just a touch too desperately at Ryan, carefully avoiding the gaze, the sight, of any feature of the blonde in front of her.   
  
The Doctor doesn't look convinced, and looks back, to send a glare at the kettle. "Not sure of that, she burned herself, blasted thing hurt—"  
  
"Just a drop." Yaz assure. "Just a drop. I'm fine, Doctor." Her smile was tight at the edges, and she, with a heavy heart, with something under the layers of her ribs and sinew squealing in protest, pulled her hand back from her face; From the Doctor's warm grip.  
  
Ryan, bless him, backed her up, and said, "Oh, yeah. Happens all the time, especially 'cuz the one at home is all shoddy, as old as the house, almost, I reckon—" To which Graham went, Britishly polite indignation in his voice,   
  
" _Oi._ "

And soon the whole debacle was forgotten, as the Doctor now had not one, but three shiny and new humans to interact with and babble at.   
  
The skin of her back, where the Doctor's hands had stayed _(lingered?)_ in the hug were warm as if branded. And when her hand went back, to swipe and press at the skin there—Well, she excused it as a mere scratch of itchy flesh.   
  
And when she pressed her hand against her upper cheek, still lingering with the Doctor's warmth, with the Doctor's scent, a scent which was indescribably soft and good, an almost-flowery, not-quite-powdery smell, she told herself she was still nursing the burn, even if it smarted no longer.   
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont expect a regular update schedule for me because im a fiend with the time management of a horse


	3. The Tsuranga Conundrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yaz sees most things, but not all.

Yaz wakes, and she aches. The ache's not in her muscles, not in her bones, but deeper—Deeper inside of her, as if coating her organs in a thin film of distant pain. Yaz groans, and attempts to roll onto her side, when gentle hands stop her, keeping her prone on the surface—A bed?—Yaz doesn't open her eyes, but the hands are thin, and feminine, and soft, and so instinctively Yaz groans, "Doctor?"   
  
An unknown voice says, "No, medic. Are you in pain?" And Yaz's eyes fly open, and while her vision swims, it settles quickly onto the form of a woman with two blue buns atop her head, a woman with peculiar dots to her face, someone who is clearly  _not_ the Doctor.

"Where—" Yaz's mouth is dry, so dry, that her voice comes out more as a cough than anything else.   
  
"Take a small breather, ma'am. The sonic mine's had you lose a good amount of fluid. Here, drink this—" The woman presses something that feels like a glass cup to her lips, and despite herself, despite knowing that she's a world and an eon away from everything she ever knows, that she shouldn't trust anything but the Doctor and Team TARDIS here, Yaz still—Sips it. It's water, mostly, but with a slight off flavour that she doesn't notice until she's gone and gulped the entire thing down.   
  
Very quickly, her pain begins to dull, until it's gone completely. When Yaz next opens her eyes, she's not sure if just a minute has passed, or more time still. 

The woman from before is sitting with a figure that Yaz quickly identifies as Graham, rubbing absentmindedly at his stomach, and when Yaz scans over the room, she sees that Ryan is also sitting up, staring with wide eyes at the ship around them. When Yaz's eyes catch onto strands of blond hair, strewn onto a white bed, her body prone and immobile—Something inside of Yaz heats. It's—It's a low, simmering heat, that makes Yaz's back straighten, make her eyes narrow and makes her say, jaw tight and fists clentched, "What have you done to her?" 

A man in white whirls around at the sight of her voice, before he eases and says, "Oh, it's good that you're up **—** " But Yaz couldn't give a rat's  _ass_ as she pushes herself off the bed with her hands, standing on legs which go wobbly for a minute, before slumping over to the Doctor's side, the Doctor, who's chest is rising and dipping, but who hasn't awoken, who still has a small bruise at her cheek which is visibly lightening in front of her very eyes—  
  
"What have you done with her. Where are we. Who are you." Yaz's voice has an edge of cutting steel to it, and when Yaz notices the figures growing closer, she presses her body against the Doctor's form, protecting—protecting what she can of the Doctor, what little that her small body can protect, when they approach.  
  
"Calm down, ma'am." His hands are raised in a placating way. "This is a hospital ship. We're medics, who picked you up once it was brought to our attention that you had been hit by a sonic bomb. It's alright, ma'am. Your friend hasn't woken yet because she doesn't seem to have a Terran based body—And so our medicine is less effective as a result. That's all." The man's smile is gentle, and soft, and the way he walks, he talks, soothes her, as she recognizes it as the body language of medical staff the world, or, er, the universe over—  
  
"Right." Yaz says, making her shoulders slump, rubbing her aching eyes with her fists, before she looks back at the Doctor.   
  
Yaz thinks this is the first time she's seen the woman rest. Usually such a bundle of energy, of streaming words, of endless facts and a love for all things—Watching her sleep, it's not—It doesn't feel wrong, or antithetical to what the Doctor is, or anything of the sort.   
  
In fact, a part of Yaz is happy that she's getting the rest she deserves.   
  
Yaz's thumb, which had coincidentally been placed near the Doctor's wrist, aimlessly rubs at the slip of bare skin there, in a movement which is partially to soothe the slumbering Doctor, and partially—Something else.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" The man asks, and Yaz's head whirls around to face him, and in the corner of her eye Ryan, the  _git_ , is  _laughing into his fist—_  
  
Yaz briefly wonders how long she'd been staring at the Doctor like a bloody dutiful puppy. Touching her, like, like the Doctor isn't just a friend she somewhat knows, like she isn't some bloody crazy alien who lives in a great big blue box and takes them all over time and space and and—Yaz can  _feel_ the flush, hot and red and stretching from ear to neck when she squeaks, "Quite alright." Before ducking her head and making her way back to her bed, where she lies down on it, covers her face with her forearm, and gives a great big sigh which makes her body shake through the force of it.   
  
She can  _feel_ the vibration of the laughter coming off Ryan. Oh, she'll  _get_ him for this. 

Graham just confusedly grumbles, " _Young people,"_   and this is the thing that sends Ryan into audible howls. 

 

...

When the Doctor wakes, Yaz had been just considering asking if they have a telly or something onboard—There's a physical limit to how much she can lie on the bed playing whatever half-arsed App store games she'd downloaded, knowing that the vastness of space was a bit sparse on WiFi—And then the Doctor wakes, and wakes  _loudly._  
  
She gasps and she groans, and even from being on the bed, she looks clearly discombobulated, and it's even worse when the Doctor gets onto her feet, when she asks about the TARDIS, stumbling whenever she walks, clutching her side like it's hurting _bad_ —

Yaz wants to run up to the Doctor, hold her arm, and tell her to  _rest_. Yaz wants to rub her hand over the Doctor's aches, and magic it away with a sole thought. Yaz wants to carry the weight, the warmth, the presence of the Doctor on her, in a selfish display of possessive want to see the Doctor just vulnerable enough to even think about relying on Yaz at any degree. Yaz wants to hold the Doctor and wants to softly press—  
  
Yaz wants many, many, many, many things—But she's not brave enough, or worthy enough, to get any of them. And so, like a piss-poor friend, she shadows after the Doctor, even as she's clearly in pain, in distress, because—  
  
Because Yaz can't bear the thought of the Doctor rebuffing her, if Yaz comes up and tries to help. Yaz just doesn't have the bravery to be hurt like that. 

And so, in the end, it's good that Astos is the one to talk the Doctor down. That he's brave, and good enough, to do that for her.   
  
Yaz still feels that illogical niggle of jealousy in her, though. 

 

...

 

"....If you don't mind me asking, how did your mum die?" The moment the words come out of her mouth, she's full to the brim with regret. When Ryan turns away, tension in his body, Yaz rather wishes there was some way to toss herself into space, just so she can be rid of the awkwardness to come.   
  
And yet, Ryan, like a mate, takes it, and while the words are hard to speak, while the words make his eyes go misty with visions of the past—He speaks. And a sick feeling rises in Yaz's belly, thick and immobile and sickly-sweet. 13. God, if Yaz hadn't needn't to go to a different secondary school, then—  
  
But at 13, Yaz knew she wouldn't have helped any. At 13, she had her own problems to deal with.   
  
And the sick feeling spreads and spreads in her gut until it's in her throat, wrapped around her chest, around her knees hard enough to make them go a little weak because—Because at 13, Ryan's mum had  _died—_ And, and, and Yaz? No one died. Everything was great. No money issues, her family was happy, they had a chance to go south or to another country come every holiday, Yaz—Yaz's teenage years were  _nothing_ compared to what Ryan must have gone through, with his mum's passing, with his dad abandoning him, and—  
  
And yet here Yaz stood, languishing in the thought that  _she'd_ gone through some tough times, when all she'd had was a few social issues, a propensity to cry at the wrong moments, and other such paltry shit like that—  
  
Yaz wonders, at times, right now, why she's so utterly selfish. Yaz wonders when she'll grow up, and realize that the world is more than a chance to wallow in her self-pity.   
  
(And the ultimate kicker, in all of this, is that by putting herself down she's just being all the more selfish, when Ryan's the one aching, now. Ah. She's always been a terrible friend, hasn't she?)

Yaz's eye itches, and when she rubs at her eye, Ryan doesn't think twice about it. 

 

...

  
"I'm the Doctor, and these are my friends—Ryan, Graham—" There's a small moment of quiet. In that time, Yaz blinks twice, and glances at the two of them—Before the Doctor gestures to her, and goes, "—...And Yaz."  
  
Yaz's lips upturn in an awkward, horizontal grin, that she's seen roasted to hell and back in all of those white people memes. Her fingers rub against each other, and Yaz wonders how utterly crazy she has to be for imagining that thread of fondness in the Doctor's voice, for placing any sort of meaning behind the pause, about the Doctor's choice to say her name last.   
  
She's always been good at pulling shit from thin air. Look at her Psychology exams, for example.   
  
Still. Despite the talk of doom and gloom, her thoughts still circle back to—  
  
_'—...And Yaz.'_  
  
Yaz's heart, despite knowing there's nothing deeper, still beats an unsteady rhythm into her ear. 

...

 

Yaz never thought that her A-Level interest in Physics would be something she'd ever use in her life, what, with her ultimately choosing to become a copper. And yet, millennia into the future, she pulls out some shit half-remembered from secondary, and when the Doctor looks at her, with a certain brightness to her face, something not like quite but almost like awe, like, like, like she's actually  _impressed,_ and not in that way someone might be when they're condescending—Yaz feels something inside of her melt into something sticky and gooey and warm.   
  
And even as she's awed by technology, by what will come in the distant, distant future—She still feels herself ride the small crest of her high, a high taken from the most indirect of compliments, if it could even be called that.   
  
That is, until the moment that the Doctor stares at the anti-matter engine, stares with an ultimate softness to her eyes, to her face, an awe greater than what she levelled at Yaz, awe and wonder and something not unlike  _admiration_ and, and, and dare she say, dare she say— _Love?_  
  
Yaz never thought she'd be jealous of an anti-matter drive, and yet, look at her now. 

The moment that no one is looking, when even Ronan's looking away, scouring for the Pting—She gives the drive a very petty, very childish shitlook, as if to say, ' _What do you have that I don't?'_ but, of course, she already knows the answer. After all, Yasmin Khan is just so much more plain, so much more boring, than something as stunning and unique and impressive as this. Even the thought of comparing herself to a complex technology thousands of years in the making—God, it's one of her funniest jokes, if she ever spoke it aloud. 

 

...

 

Her greatest and most immediate regret, after she boots the trapped Pting down the hallway, is that she didn't take the opportunity right in front of her.   
  
Ryan and the entirety of humanity would be so ashamed to know that she hadn't said, _"Yeet."_

 

... 

 

In the moment, she wasn't thinking right. Yaz's police training instincts should have kicked in, should have told her to protect the civilian above all else (even if the Doctor was very much  _not_ that—) and yet and yet and yet—And yet when the Doctor slides over her, protectively pushing her towards the wall, putting her torso, her body in between Yasmin and and the Pting—  
  
Yaz should have womaned up, and protected the Doctor. Because the Doctor was so soft, so good, so wonderful and vulnerable and pure, while Yaz—Yaz wasn't any of those things, really. And yet, the Doctor protects her with her body and her arms, and Yaz finds that she really doesn't mind, actually. Or does she? God, she's torn.   
  
The femme side of her brain goes, 'Nice soft woman warmth protected.'  
  
The butch side of her brain goes, 'Nice soft woman warmth I protect!'  
  
And all of her goes, 'Oh, she's so close and so warm and so soft and so  _here.'_

Of course, these thoughts only distantly pass through her head, a gentle undercurrent to the panic and worry and vague terror that consumes the rest of her brain, upon being caught between an actual space bomb, a demonic space baby, and the Doctor's warm warm warm body, warm as the sun, and she's so close, so so so close, as to smell the Doctor properly, smell her skin and even the flowery shampoo of her hair and—  
  
And as the beeps count up, go quicker, go higher, from the bomb, Yaz can  _feel_ the increasingly frantic beats of the Doctor's hearts, can feel her pressing against Yaz ever more—Why—Maybe to protect her more, to futilely try to shield her from the force of a bomb strong enough to take out a  _spaceship,_ or maybe it's just something that has nothing to do with her and is as simple as the Doctor simply doing it out of unconscious nervousness or—  
  
"It ate it!" The sigh comes out of the two of them at the same exact time, heaving breast against heaving back, and all thoughts of death and the Doctor are driven out of her mind, as she's consumed by a singular relief, the Doctor pressed against her chest for one last blissfully sweet second, and while the relief of the moment, of being alive, of seeing that little space demon float into the vast reaches of death, of being okay and safe—As these thoughts consume her, and then so many more do so in the future, she can't help but—  
  
But mourn those moments of contact. Of feeling the beat of the Doctor's twin hearts against her, and feeling like the Doctor isn't only protecting her from the Pting, but from the world at large, from all of the cruelties and pains and anguishes within.   
  
And when the day is saved, when Eve is mourned, when Avocado is brought into the world, and they travel back to the junk planet where this is all started, found the TARDIS a bit worn and _very_ ornery but that ultimately all is well—  
  
Yaz walks into the TARDIS control room, hours later, and sees the Doctor sprawled across the floor, her side squeezed between a panel and the guts of the ship, head pressed against the cool metal of a grate that's leaving reddened crosshatch marks on her dozing head. She must have fallen asleep while working on the TARDIS. A hand's still inside the bowels of a toolbox, after all.   
  
Yaz stands, in the orange glow of the control room, and wonders how much the Doctor would hate her if she disturbed her.   
  
The Doctor doesn't have it in her, to hate. She's far too good, inhumanly so, for that. And yet, Yaz worries, when she crouches down to pull the Doctor's limbs from out the mess of wires, when she pulls her face away from the grate—And sniggers her little heart out at the sheer sight of her face, when it looks like she's just been pressed against a waffle maker. Despite the low throb of worry, she still pulls her into a somewhat comfortable position, doing her best not to wake her, pausing and holding her breath whenever the pace of the Doctor's breath as much as changed—And Yaz still tugs off her puffy coat, and lies it flat against the Doctor's body.   
  
The Doctor's too tall for it to be a true blanket. But she hopes it's good enough.   
  
In all honesty, the Doctor's likely going to wake, within the next few moments, as that's just the way Yaz's luck works. So the nearly 15 minutes she'd spent carefully rearranging limbs, pausing every now and then to check if she was still asleep, and doing all of this—It was worthless. Stupid. Horribly and horribly obvious and oh god why the  _hell did she do this—_  
  
Her hand's lightly pressed against the Doctor's cheek. It was there originally to place her head in a more comfortable position. But the hand lingered there, ever since, sitting heavy on the Doctor like a brand.   
  
God. She was such a fucking creep.  _Groping_ the Doctor when she's so vulnerable, when she's _asleep_ —  
  
Yaz is just thinking of pulling away, when the Doctor shifts, putting just the bit more weight against her side, and presses her cheek into Yaz's hand, until skin is flush with skin, until Yaz feels the Doctor's weight on it, feels her cheek subtly shift and move with each breath, can feel the barely-there movements of her jaw in her sleep—  
  
Yaz wants to cradle the Doctor's face, from here to the end of time. Yaz wants to wrap and wind around the Doctor, to wrap her in warmth, to protect her, to the point where the two of them merge, and Yaz gets swallowed up, and through the Doctor's betterness in every single regard, never feels less or worthless or like Yasmin Khan ever again.   
  
Yaz has always been a shameful, detestable little thing.   
  
For the good of the Doctor, to make sure the Doctor won't be groped and pawed at even more in her sleep, to make sure Yaz can't taint this shining sun of a person even more, Yaz carefully eases her hand from under the Doctor, until she's free, and her hand burns from the sudden rush of cold. 

Yaz rushes out of the room, her feet carrying her in something just slightly slower than a run, until she's out of the console room, until she's out of the hallways, and in the relative quiet lonely safety of her room. 

Here, she presses her nails into the meat of her cheeks, so that the pain reteaches her the lessons she has neglected to learn. That it's always bad to get attached. That, no matter what, no one, especially _the Doctor_ , won't—Won't—  
  
Won't return this dumb and stupid crush of hers.   
  
Crush.   
  
God.   
  
Yaz is such a pathetic, mewling little creature, isn't she? For falling in love with someone so out of her league, that it's just surpassed comedy, and fallen into pitiful tragedy instead?  
  
God.   
  
Yaz wishes, sometimes _(now)_ that she could be a better person. Maybe then, she could be someone who could learn who to love, and, maybe, just maybe, be loved in return. 

 

...

 

In the console room, the Doctor's eyes crack open, and she viscerally feels the sudden cold spots where Yaz's body and hand had been. She mumbles something, unknown even to her, and presses herself into a little ball, and tries to focus on the lingering heat of Yaz's hand on her skin. A soft, lingering, pleasant warmth, that felt like soaking up the soft rays of an afternoon sun. 

The Doctor slips back into sleep, and she dreams. And when she dreams, she dreams of the crimson grasses of Gallifrey, the silver leaves fluttering in the winds, and the warmth and the presence of thighs under her head; Nimble, feminine fingers carding through her hair.   
  
The Doctor has always wanted things which were impossible to have. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter may or may not have been mildly inspired by these posts: 
> 
> https://thetrashqueeeen.tumblr.com/post/179763115925/yasmin-khan-knows-thirteen-has-an-intelligence
> 
> http://doctorwhogeneration.tumblr.com/post/179762309782/heres-13th-falling-in-love-with-the-engine
> 
> also also: (rough draft) sneak peek for next chap, which should be coming out before the next ep: (it's a beach episode babey!!!!!!!!)
> 
>  
> 
> Yaz's heart is still beating, thick and hot, in her throat, so hard that she can't even _think_ of speaking. The vision of the Doctor, the Doctor's expanse of skin, oh-so-soft at the hands, and which looks so soft here and now, at her body, at all of her, and, and, and the sight of her, the, the, the sight of the Doctor in something that shows off the expanse of her arms, her legs, even that hint of her belly, it's, it's—
> 
> Distantly, the whole time that Yaz stood there, stock-still and eyes blown in shock, the Doctor had been slowly easing herself into the liquid, climbing down the ladder which had so made Ryan yowl, "Oh not _again_ —" With her fingers dipping to press at the slightly gelatinous liquid, delighted at, at, the temperature? The texture? Something, but oh, oh, oh that smile, it made something stir in Yaz's belly, something flutter in her chest, made her throat dry and and and—
> 
> And the Doctor goes still with realization, and gives out this low, annoyed sigh, before turning to look right back up at Yaz, shoulders slumped, as if in self-chastisement. "Ah, shoot. I've forgotten that hydrokeratonite corrodes silver. Do you mind taking my earring off for me? My, uh, hands, aren't exactly suited for the job anymore—" The Doctor's smile is slight and tight, as if apologizing for giving Yasmin the burden of coming down to the Doctor, of pressing against her body, of reaching up to her face, to her silky hair, and touching the sensitive skin of her ear, feeling her breath against her neck, standing for a good while just millimetres away from her lips and—
> 
> And Yaz makes a noise a bit like a howling kettle. The Doctor's brows furrow in perplexed amusement at her.


	4. Arachnids in the Tsuranga Conundrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or: the hot spring episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao guess who noticed a typo in her fucking story blurb thing. fucking hell im a mess
> 
> this fic is 40% angst, 50% typo, and 10% ryan laughing his ass off
> 
> just so you know: this fic is also set before the tsuranga condurumrumrumurm even tho chapter wise.. its after that ep. dont mind it. timey whimey nonsense ;) set between second chap and third chap s o

"Kinstarno, the year 8450!" The Doctor exclaimed, opening the doors of the TARDIS with a suitably dramatic _woosh_. And then she paused, thought, and went, "Well, in  _your_ years—In their years, I think it's, what, the year 5 million and nine or so? Not quite sure, there's a lot of 'em." And then she threw her hands up in the air, "Anyways! Welcome, to the Upward Tropics!"   
  
She turns around them, hazel eyes almost glinting gold in the brilliant sunlight of this planet—And while Ryan may have been busy ogling the crystalline, glinting forest around them, or Graham busy with slathering himself white with sunscreen—All Yaz could do, in that instance, was stare at the brilliance of the Doctor's eager smile, of her bright face—And—And—And— _And want_.   
  
For what? She's not sure there's a name for it. But a want for  _all_ , is not a wrong way to call it.   
  
"Uh, Doc—So you said we're going rainbathing, yah? What, uh, does that mean, exactly?" Graham asks, glancing around. He's the very image of an old-man-tourist, Hawaiian shirt, fanny pack, socks and sandals and all. Yaz had called it.. Quaint. Ryan, terrifying. The Doctor had been over _joyed,_ and the only reason she wasn't decked out in toucan print and Golas was Ryan and Yaz bodily holding her back from committing such a fashion travesty in their presence. The suspenders were more than enough, most of the time. 

"Exactly what it sounds like!" The Doctor replied, following down the chipped, crystalline steps which led from the densely forested area the TARDIS landed in, to, presumably, some semblance of civilization. "I mean—This part of the planet is all but a metropolis for bathing. There's bathhouses, massive hotsprings, chemical baths which do  _wonders_ for the skin—And it's all here because, every 10 years, it rains diamonathol—" One of the carved steps is a bit steep, and while the Doctor merely hops over it Yaz and Graham almost trip over it. How Ryan doesn't, despite his dyspraxia, is a mystery. "One of the most beautiful substances in the universe, and which is said to grant whoever bathes in it eternal youth. A bit not  _correct—_ They _only_ just restore your collagen, via restoring the cyclic proline in your trihelical structures—Which does a similar, if very temporary job. But it looks and feels  _amazing,_ and it's truly one of the 2043 wonders of this Galaxy, so."   
  
The trio, behind her, had been loosely nodding their heads, as the technobabble sailed past their heads and ended up squished under Graham's massive, squeaking, sock and sandeled feet.  
  
In front of them, as they climbed down the steps, and, presumably, down a mountain, they saw glimpses of a tall, dirty crystal city rising out of the cyan earth. "Of course, the hotsprings, the bathhouses, they're not filled with water—"   
  
Graham mutters his breath, "Of course they aren't, how silly to think that bathhouses would have water in them—"   
  
"They're filled with various other liquids—Things like titanium pentahydroxol, ketonicocide, and, of course, hydrokeratonite—All safe, mind you! Save for the hydrocholoric baths—But those are rather meant for the silicon-based life forms, not us feeble carbon-based ones. Although, of course, if you're feeling daring you could always  _try—_ Why, I do recall when I was younger, one of my Timelord friends bet me to leap in, and wisely I didn't, but  _he_ did, and he was fine, no worries! But just had a bit of a bad case of testicular—"  
  
"TMI!" Ryan exclaims.  
  
The Doctor stops dead in her tracks, blinks, thinks, and goes, "TMI?" With the words rounded and odd in her mouth.   
  
"Too much information." Ryan replies.   
  
"Ah." She's got a hand to her mouth, nodding sagely. "Right, of course. But, just one last thing: If you're worried about that sort of thing—He did tell me he didn't have body hair for a good few hundred years afterwards?"

Yaz, for one insane moment, does weigh the pros and cons. Burning off her skin and melting like cotton candy in water, vs not having to shave her legs until the day she dies? Tough.   
  
God, the Doctor must be rubbing off her,  _hard._  
  
(Rubbing off her, hard. Ha, ha. Oh god, why does she get _mental imagery_ at those words?)  
  
Ryan looks suitably disgusted. Graham looks on the verge of protectively wrapping around his beloved growth of arm hair. 

In time, they reached the bottom of the steps. The air had grown less thin—Yaz hadn't even noticed that the air had _been_ thin, before—And now was thicker, _wetter_. And faintly fragrant, like, like—  
  
"Raspberries?" Ryan asks, nose twitching.   
  
"Ethyl formate." The Doctor nodded. "It's—"  
  
Yaz slaps her forehead. "Oh! Wasn't there—Isn't there—Isn't there a galaxy or something, that has a cloud of it?"   
  
There's a long, pensive silence. And Yaz, within the span of a few seconds, feels her neck sink into her shoulders, her hands tuck into her body, and her back hunch until she can all but feel both points of her spine connecting. Oh, oh, oh  _God_ , why, why, why did she interrupt, oh god, she's so stupid, she mixed something up didn't she oh oh oh oh _fuck_ —  
  
"Oh,  _Yaz."_ Yaz—Yaz—Yaz—Yaz had  _not_ been expecting the guttural, low note to the Doctor's voice. The Doctor—She's got eyes for Yaz only, eyes and face and body fixated on her. There's—There's something like, like—Like awe. Like amazement, genuine and true, there. And there's something else, too, in the specific slant of her body, in the tilt of her head, in the easy way a few bits of hair fall over her face, in, in—  
  
(In the Doctor's eyes, just a fraction too black with swollen pupils.)   
  
"You're right. Absolutely right. Oh, _Yaz_ , you're brill." Yaz feels like she could, and she is, getting drunk on the specific way the Doctor says her name. In the lilts of it, the way the 'z' goes all breathy, and light, and, and, and—  
  
The Doctor comes up to her, and grabs her hands, with her warm, thin ones, and says, "Oh, you're so right, absolutely right you are— _Oh_ , I should've known you'dve known that, after all, you've such a brilliant knack for memorizing things, my brilliant, brilliant girl—" Yaz is looking in the Doctor's bright, hazel-gold eyes, and feels her chest go tight and aching with a lack of breath. She doesn't even know that she's holding her breath, that she has her mouth slightly agape, her eyes large and wide and shining until—  
  
"Doc?" Graham asks, and it's like the word breaks—Everything. Slices the thick air between them, leaving it to dissipate into the ether. The Doctor blinks, glances over to him, and goes,   
  
"Oh, right! Rainbathing, right." Her smile is faintly apologetic. "Sorry, Graham. I knew you're impatient for this, after your trip to Spain didn't go so well—"   
  
Yaz feels the ache in her diaphragm as she inhales fresh, raspberry flavoured air. The Doctor's still holding her hands, and Yaz, Yaz—  
  
Yaz feels blessed, now.   
  
And cursed. Cursed with a weight that drags her belly to the ground, and even further down, until it fizzles into bare atoms in the planet's fiery core.   
  
The Doctor goes on ahead, once again, and Yaz doesn't move for a long moment. In the corner of her eye, Graham and Ryan glance at each other, before following after the Doctor. And once they do, Yaz is stirred to movement, and follows, her gait clumsy and full of unequal strides. 

Yaz's heartbeat doesn't stop beating rabbit-quick in her chest for quite some time. And her mind doesn't stop replaying, ' _my brilliant, brilliant girl_ ' for some time more. 

They're passing through—What is clearly some kind of city. Tall, geometric crystal structures that glow pink and blue and green and a dirty brown in the light tower above them, faintly reminding of the skyscrapers of New York City, but, y'know, space-y. The roads underfoot glow like a striated sort of diamond, and just like in the forest behind them, the trees are of a thin, translucent crystal which hums whenever even the slightest breeze comes through.   
  
"Uh, Doc—" Graham begins.   
  
"Hm?" The Doctor hums, absentmindedly.   
  
"Why—Why isn't there anyone here?" There's a faint pit growing at the bottom of her stomach. Oh, right, the city, this place— _Is_ awfully desolate—  
  
The Doctor waves a hand. "No worries, Graham. No death-defying adventures to be had here, even if that's a  _bit_ of a shame—It's just the off season, and so the resort is basically empty."   
  
A resort? Fucking hell. This is one  _hell_ of a resort.   
  
"How's that possible, though?" Ryan asks, glancing around. "Ain't people coming for the rain, an' all that?"   
  
"Oh, they do! You should see this place when it's on-season—You can't even  _walk,_ that's how many people are here. But the thing is—This planet? It's pregnant, and has been, for quite some time." Yaz blinks.  _What_ _—_ "And so as the planet is getting closer to giving birth, the weather will become more and more unpredictable, the temperature rising—It _came_ every 10 years, but now? Every 11 years, every 8 years, every 5, every 30. And so, the tourism for this planet drops. A shame, really, since the rains are a beautiful sight—But, better for us, really—Since it doesn't mean we'll be on the constant lookout for pickpockets and trying to push through a horde of Wallachians just to get one corndog."   
  
Within that entire rant, the thing Yaz found most bewildering is that, in a galaxy leagues away from their own, in a place were humans had never stepped foot, somehow, the concept of corndogs had been independently invented and popularized.   
  
Ryan is looking at the ground with something approaching dawning horror. Graham seems to be coughing out his own spit, which he had presumably choked on. Yaz just sorta... stares, at the Doctor's coated back.   
  
Space, she supposes, is full of oddities which will never cease to surprise her. 

"What?" The Doctor asks, high and innocent, looking back onto her companions. Yaz summons a (white people like) horizontal semi-smile, and says, "Oh, nothing." While trying to imagine a planet in labour pains.   
  
And then she thinks of increasing weather unpredictability, of rising temperatures, and the dots connect and paint an image which feels like a piece of abstract art in her head, full of oddities and too-many noses and quaint colours and—"Doctor, is, is Earth—"  
  
"Let'smoveonshallwe?" The Doctor blurts, too quickly, too suddenly, absolutely  _rushing_ ahead.   
  
Yaz doesn't know if she's ever been as pale as she is now. 

 

...  


There's something lavender and cyan hued behind the counter, something with far too many limbs and eyes, something which seems to slump in a characteristic customer service slump as it looks(?) over them, and then, through the Doctor bartering and doing some sort of imitation of language with her flailing arms, gives them all a set of keys.   
  
One of the keys open a suite up, with the walls made out of crystal, but with curtains and the beds made out of a softer, more liquid looking kind of semi-translucent material—The beds are  _gigantic,_ and the mini-fridge(?????) seems to full with snacks and drinks from the galaxy over, and Ryan seems to be going absolutely  _mental_ at the nearly cinema sized TV in the living room—  
  
"So, fam! What would you like to do, now?" The Doctor asks, clasping her hands. Ryan is gibbering something in the background, but Yaz and Graham, almost at the same time, say,   
  
"Baths."   
  
It's fairly easy to convince Ryan to go bathe, too.   
  
"Right—" The Doctor begins, sorting through one of the few closets present in their suite. "Remember how I told you not to fuss about towels and bathing suits an' all that?" Yaz faintly nods, in remembrance. " _Well,_ there's a reason for that, and it's—" The Doctor's hands hook around something large and grey and blocky, and she tries to put her back into it, into pulling the cube out onto the floor—But she fails, after digging her heels in, heaving, and going a little pink in the face through the effort.  
  
In the end, it takes all four of them to haul the thing onto the floor, even if it's but a third the size of Yaz.   
  
The Doctor, still huffing from the exertion, with the noise of Ryan's wheezing playing in the background, continues. "Because this little thing can summon all that you need, from the resort's archives!" She pats the machine at the top and—  
  
And Yaz most  _definitely_ imagines the machine making a soft 'toot' in reply.   
  
The Doctor gets on her knees in front of the machine, knocks four times at the front, and out of a seamless, even block of metal, appear little doors. And from it, the Doctor extracts four little—Hula-hoops? And then throws one to each of the humans in the room, keeping one for herself.   
  
Ryan does really try to catch it. But he misses it, just barely, and the Doctor winces when the ring clatters onto the floor. "Sorry, Ryan." She goes. And Ryan just mumbles,   
  
"Is alright." While carefully, almost all frightened like, picking up his hoop.   
  
"And what this does—When you've nothing on, of course—Is scan your body, get your measurements down—And then through a little neat interface, gives you a list of bathing suits, towels, clothes, robes, and all sorts of other things not only just for your body, but your species, body type—Even taking into account your allergies and likes and dislikes—" The Doctor taps five times on top of the box, and brings some sort of menu up. "I'll set it to English, and I'll limit some materials which humans in the 21st century still can't quite handle—But you can do whatever it is you want, really!"   
  
Yaz stares down at the little hula-hoop in her hands. And then at the suite, with all of its four beds all in one room—  
  
Ryan beats her to the chase. "Nuthin' on? But, uh, shouldn't we, um—" The Doctor blinks, innocently, for a few moments—And then slaps her forehead.  
  
"Oh, right! Almost forgot about that—There's only one bathroom, but that should be fine for you, right? We can go change one at a time." A small pause. "And I suppose I ought to do that, too, since I don't imagine you fancy seeing alien _bits_."   
  
Graham nods pretty quickly at that. Ryan's eyebrows raise, as if to say ' _obviously_ '.   
  
Yaz doesn't say or do anything at all.   
  
_(Bits, huh?)_  
  
Graham goes first—And then, halfway through, hollers desperately for help. Ryan, as the only other male, bravely steps in—And then when  _he_ hollers for aid, the Doctor comes in to help them out both. Turns out, Graham had clicked the wrong swimsuit, and had gotten a little stuck in something that was was meant for beings with smaller legs and not so much.......  _Volume_ around the belly, so to say.   
  
Graham steps out with something dull and simple—Just a pair of red boxers. Ryan mimes utter horror at seeing Graham's graying mass chest hair—Which Yaz has to agree isn't the most  _appetizing_ sight—And in response Graham just goes, "Oi, don't hate it, it's your future!" Much to Ryan's own gargled dismay.   
  
Ryan takes a bit less time, and also has just boxers, blue-grey this time. Big surprise. Although when he says, with his brows raised high, "But I  _did_ see this cheetah print speedo that I fancied—" Yaz covers up her ears and goes, 'Lalalalala' until she feels clean again. 

Yaz is the one after that. It takes some getting used to, using the interface, and feeling comfortable with the fact that the hoop occasionally floated up and hovered by one body part or another every now and then—But she comes out with a set of towels, some cute little bathrobes which feel  _divine—_ And a swimsuit, that are a deep, mauve colour, with some highlights of gold or pink, that begins with a square cut at her bust, becoming a one-piece that isn't quite so tight as swimsuits she's had in the past, ending in a low skirt which covers up most of her thighs.   
  
She's always thought her thighs were one of her uglier parts.  
  
She dresses up in a bathrobe before going out, seeing the Doctor fiddle around with her hula-hoop thing using the Sonic—Before telling her, "I'm done." The Doctor startles, slightly at the sound of her voice, and Yaz's expression goes apologetic at the fright caused—  
  
And when the Doctor looks over her, from head to toe, from loose dark brown hair to long, drooping bathrobe and sandals, the Doctor—  
  
The Doctor—  
  
Yasmin has to be  _imagining_ the inkling of disappointment she sees in the Doctor's face.    
  
"Right." The Doctor nods, gathering up her ring and passing by Yaz, grinning at her all the while.   
  
Yaz stares at the closed door, for a moment, before shaking her head— _(The Doctor's getting naked in there, y'know?)—_ And wandering to, and dropping onto, the bed she's claimed as hers.   
  
The bed, like a waterbed— _Sinks_ and  _bounces_ when she falls on it—And—Is—Is it  _warm?_ It feels, a little bit, like it's not just moving in response to her movements, but all by itself somehow—  
  
Graham is stowing some of his belongings into the cabinet by his bed, and when Ryan sees that, he does it too. And Yaz gropes around her bed, trying to find her things—And sits upright when she realized she left her things  _in the bathroom._  
  
Great going, Yaz. You absolute idiot, you absolute bellend. Yaz runs a hand through her loose, slightly oily hair, and rises to her feet—And hovers, for a good minute, by the door, hand raised, thinking of knocking.   
  
It—It would be a bother, wouldn't it? She—She can get her things later, surely, but then also, neatness and cleanliness was beat into her bones in the Academy and so so so so—  
  
She knocks, very faintly, very lightly, hoping that it isn't heard.   
  
But luck is not on her side, as from the bathroom, the Doctor hollers, "Come in!"   
  
Yaz pushes the door, with trepidation thick in her gut, and—  
  
And sees an expanse of skin, interspersed only with thin lines of black which must be the Doctor's—  
  
Yaz has never  _moved_ as fast as she does when she slams the door back into place, eyes wide and mouth zipped shut.   
  
She stares at the pale door, and feels like she's having a bit of an out of body experience, if she must be frank.   
  
"Yaz?" A half-muffled voice comes from beyond the door, and the door handle jingles. It takes every bit of strength, physical and mental, to keep the door closed between them.   
  
"Nothing, Doctor." Yaz says, eyes still wide as saucers, as she turns on her heel, and stumbles back onto her bed.   
  
"...Alright." The Doctor says, before Yaz hears footsteps retreating. 

Yaz collapses, face first, onto her bed. She feels slack, and shocked, and dumb. Too shocked for the self hatred to flood in, just yet.   
  
Faintly, she registers Ryan snorting like an amused pig, somewhere to her left.   
  
Wankstain. 

_("You knew what you wanted, when you knocked on that door." Something venomous inside of her head goes. "Sick, sick, sick.")_

When the Doctor steps out wearing a pastel pink and blue bathrobe, which literally looks like it's spun from cotton candy, disappointment fills her gut, just right next to the steady throb of her self-hatred. 

...  
  
  
"Oh we  _so_ have to swim in that first." Ryan says, pointing at a vast, teal pool that stretches as far as the eye could see.   
  
The resort, true to word, is... Desolate. Not one soul is here. It's—A bit eerie, sure—But also, the fact they have this entire place to themselves is just—  
  
Amazing, really. Because it means that they could do whatever they want, could splash around and lob alien sand at each other without disturbing  _anyone._  
  
"Agreed." Yaz says, face brilliantly bright with excitement and giddiness—Even as the self hatred stays thick in her, as the memory of the Doctor in her underwear repeats in her head as if to spite her, watching as if some scandalized, repressed Victorian, the hint of the Doctor's bare ankles and feet—  
  
"Good choice!" The Doctor cries, proudly marching forward to the—Hot spring? Pool? Lagoon?—"Hydrokeratonite, that is! A rather nice material—No danger to you, of course, but you come out of it with almost no dead skin on you—"   
  
Graham, thirsting for sun and water and the summer experience after having been oh-so horribly deprived of Spain, all but  _launches_ into the pool.   
  
"You're crazy, man!" Ryan calls, with laughter high in his voice, following after Graham.   
  
Graham eventually bursts through the surface, flapping his arms in confused mild outrage, "Doc, the water's  _gooey—_ "   
  
"That's what hydrokeratonite does, Graham!" The Doctor yells, hands cupped around her mouth—  
  
And in that moment, body covered in the warm rays of the planet's sun, with her hair all but glowing under the light of the alien afternoon, with her face bright with fondness and happiness and affection—  
  
Yaz understands why she's gotten such horrid, horrid feelings for the Doctor. Because, staring at her right now, right here, she feels like she might just fall in love all over again.   
  
Yaz loosens her robe, letting it drop onto the floor, peering at Ryan as he pads into the pool, through the shallow end—  
  
And when she glances back at the Doctor, the Doctor looks away, quick.   
  
(Yaz doesn't notice the ruddy hue at the Doctor's cheeks and nose. Doesn't notice the way that, as soon as her head turns again, the Doctor glances back at her, through the corners of her eyes, greedy for every glimpse.)  
  
Yaz stretches, arms high, back twisted, toes spreading and then relaxing, and enjoys the way that the swimsuit slides over her skin, before she glances back at the Doctor—  
  
The Doctor, who's also let let loose her robe, to reveal a two piece swimsuit which imitates a one piece, which consists of a high cut black and blue shirt that's scarcely tight at any part of her, and bright, lily and bird patterned shorts which, while loose, do grip her thighs just faintly enough—And when the Doctor stretches in turn, Yaz sees a flash of stomach, and something which might be a belly button—  
  
Yaz makes a noise that, in nature, would usually be made by distressed sheep.   
  
"Let's go, Yaz!" The Doctor beams at her, apparently not noticing her noise, or the way that Yaz feels warmth consume all of her, not only her face, but her body, her hands, her back, every  _inch_ of her—  
  
The Doctor walks off, heading towards where a ladder juts out of the pool, turning around to start stepping down, into the liquid. 

Yaz's heart is still beating, thick and hot, in her throat, so hard that she can't even  _think_  of speaking. The vision of the Doctor, the Doctor's expanse of skin, oh-so-soft at the hands, and which looks so soft here and now, at her body, at all of her, and, and, and the sight of her, the, the, the sight of the Doctor in something that shows off the expanse of her arms, her legs, even that hint of her belly, it's, it's—

Distantly, the whole time that Yaz stood there, stock-still and eyes blown in shock, the Doctor had been slowly easing herself into the liquid, climbing down the ladder which will make Ryan, in a few hours, yowl, "Oh not  _again_ —" And when she comes to the bottom, standing in the liquid, her fingers dip and press at the slightly gelatinous liquid, delighted at, at, the temperature? The texture? Something, but oh, oh, oh that smile, it made something stir in Yaz's belly, something flutter in her chest, made her throat dry and and and—

And the Doctor goes still with sudden realization, and gives out this low, annoyed sigh, before turning to look right back up at Yaz, shoulders slumped, as if in self-chastisement. "Ah, shoot." Her tongue presses against her teeth. Yaz follows the movement of it, as it slides over her teeth and lip. "I've forgotten that hydrokeratonite corrodes silver. Do you mind taking my earring off for me? My, uh, hands, aren't exactly suited for the job anymore—" The Doctor's smile is slight and tight, as if apologizing for giving Yasmin the burden of coming down to the Doctor, of pressing against her body, of reaching up to her face, to her silky hair, and touching the sensitive skin of her ear, feeling her breath against her neck, standing for a good while just millimeters away from her lips and—

And Yaz makes a noise a bit like a howling kettle. The Doctor's brows furrow in perplexed amusement at her.  
  
"Right." Yaz is quite sure her voice has never been this airy, in her entire life. "Sure." Yaz adds, furiously nodding. The Doctor's chest heaves, in loosening tension.   
  
Yaz, slowly, carefully, aware of the Doctor peering up at her from below—Climbs down the ladder, and makes care to not dip her hands into the liquid.   
  
The Doctor is rather flushed, when Yaz comes down—She  _is_ rather pale, and Yaz doesn't think that she put on any sunscreen—Do—Do aliens  _need_ sunscreen—?  
  
"Yaz?" The Doctor's voice is sheet-soft.   
  
Yaz snaps out of it, snaps out of the panic making her thoughts cycle endlessly into themselves, out of the hysteria making her heart beat into her throat, her head, and she returns to a perfectly unbent, normal state of existence—  
  
Oh  _sure_  she does.  
  
Yaz's breath is slightly wheezing and hurts a little to take in, when she carefully pads through the liquid, crossing what little distance lay between them. The Doctor's smile is encouraging, and soft. Oh-so soft. Oh, Yaz—Yaz imagines what it would be like, to see that softness, that kindness, directed at her at all times, on all days, imagines that smile pinning down her insecurities like one pins butterflies, until she's empty of them and full with love and happiness instead—  
  
Yaz reaches her hands up, and the Doctor slides closer, easing into the little space between her arms, until the loose fabric of her swimsuit is pressed against hers, and Yaz can feel the distant impression of the swell of her breasts—And—And—And if she looks down right _now_ then she'll, then she'll see—  
  
"Stay still, Doctor." Yaz says. She. She has no idea how she's keeping her voice so even. The Doctor hums, and dips her head down, tilting it so it's touched by Yaz all the quicker.   
  
Yaz's fingers skim over the Doctor's ear—And—It's a bloody  _ear._ An  _ear._ So then, so then, so then, why does she feel like she's sweating from the crown of her head down to her toenails—  
  
She feels the weight of the Doctor's eyes on her, feels, physically, the few inches of space between their faces, feels the Doctor's attention on her, feels the silence between them, stretching like taffy, as Yaz's slightly shaking fingers find the lobe of the Doctor's ear, where she pulls out the lock keeping the earring in place—  
  
The Doctor is looking at her, at her alone, fond and intense and ardent, through her gold-hued eyelashes, and Yaz supposes, she supposes, that this is what dying feels like. 

The earring comes off. She has to slide her fingers to the top of the Doctor's ear, to take off the clasp there. And then, she's got her earring in her hand, light and shiny and glorious.   
  
Yaz doesn't move away.   
  
Neither does the Doctor.   
  
"Thank you." The Doctor says lowly. So low, that if Yaz was standing even a few more inches away, she's not sure she would have heard it.   
  
Yaz doesn't react. She ought to—To—To—To _nod_ , if nothing else, but instead she—  
  
She stares, eye to eye, at the Doctor, and can almost swear she sees something gold and dusty swirl within her irises.   
  
And then, Yaz makes a high, wheezing inhale—And she wheels around, eyes glued down, putting the Doctor's earring on the lip of the pool, body turned away, body inching away from the Doctor's—  
  
And the Doctor's makes a low, shaky exhale, and turns away, too.   
  
_(The Doctor turns away, and her face flashes with disgust.  A disgust which she swallows down, and lets consume her insides. The nail of her thumb presses into the meat of her index finger, and she wonders why she thinks that she's meant for anything more.)_

Yaz's mouth is dry, and the gulps she takes, of her own spit, are thick, and loud.   
  
Distantly, slowly, piece by piece, her senses return, and she hears splashes, and whoops. Ryan, and Graham.   
  
Yaz, briefly glances, lowly, at the Doctor. She's looking down, staring at the rippling of the liquid, and her shoulders are slumped.   
  
Yaz does not see the sad angle to them. 

The Doctor rubs over her now bare ear, and nods, faintly. "Let's—Let's go, Yaz." She says, softly. "Can't leave the boys alone—Who knows what trouble they'll get up to when we're not watching?" The Doctor looks back up, and—And her smile is almost perfect. Almost.   
  
The smile that Yaz answers with is all shaky, and lopsided, and so clearly fake that she's half-worried the Doctor will call her out on it.   
  
She doesn't.  
  
They walk.   
  
They join Graham and Ryan.  
  
They have a good time. They laugh. They whoop. They splash at each other, and Yaz almost pulls down Ryan's boxers, in the liquid, much to his outrage and embarrassment. He, suitably, attempts to take revenge. But Yaz has worn a one piece for a reason.   
  
They have a good time, but they do not forget what came before.   
  
Yaz hasn't thought of hurting herself in a long time.   
  
But now, in a place where she least expected it, the self hatred that fills her up is so bitter as to make her consider making pain bloom on her body, just so that she feels anything but.   
  
  
...   
  
  
When the triple suns of Kinstarno begin to set, they're all suitably exhausted. Graham's reclined with some sort of alien cocktail in his hands, Ryan's playing around with some alien handheld game  _thing—_ And Yaz is slumped in her seat, watching the sunset.   
  
The air gets thicker, all of a sudden. The ever-present scent of raspberries thickens, to not only raspberries, but to cherries and blueberries and spice and—  
  
The Doctor leaps to her feet, crying, "The rain's coming, quick!" And everyone, as if scalded, leaps out of their chairs and peers up at the clear sky—  
  
Which, in a literal moment, darkens to a dark red hue. And, soon after, the skies open up.   
  
And drops of liquid, thinner than the hydrokeratonite, colder than it, more refreshing than it—Fall out of the sky. And each droplet—Glints like a jewel. Like a liquid jewel. Yaz sees geometric shapes in them, sees images of things beyond her ken in them—And Yaz, staring up at the sky, covered in utterly alien rain which makes her skin tingle—Extends her arms, her hands, closes her eyes, and lets the rain wash her sadness and regret away.   
  
It doesn't do that. It doesn't do that at all. But a girl can hope.   
  
And when the rain stops, a short while after, and Yaz opens her eyes—She sees the Doctor beaming at her.   
  
Yaz watches droplets of liquid diamond fall from the Doctor's wet hair, from her eyelashes—  
  
And beams back, laughing, faintly.   
  
The Doctor stares, eyes so so so so soft. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i implying the master dunked his stupid self into the hydrocholoric baths and got himself naked balls syndrome for two centuries? maybe
> 
> also: the doctor 10000000% has an intelligence kink
> 
> also also: yaz 1000000000000000000% has a praise kink
> 
> also also also: WHY DID I WASTE 4 HOURS OF MY LIFE AND WRITE!!!! OVER !! 5 !! K!! FOR!! THIS
> 
> also also also also: i may not post a chap about the new ep tomorrow or even monday because............. im fucking BEAT after doing this and have like.. a life i need to deal with.. unfortunately.................


End file.
